


Fire

by LiteratiAngel92



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28853148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiteratiAngel92/pseuds/LiteratiAngel92
Summary: "Humans have this ridiculous notion that in the split seconds before death, our entire lives pulse across our vision in a flurry of disappointment and regrets juxtaposed with the bright colours of happier times. They are wrong."A little Koschei-Simm!Master thought!drabble following on from EoT Pt2, with some ThetaKoschei fluff thrown in for kicks.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm), The Doctor | Theta Sigma/The Master | Koschei (Doctor Who: Academy Era), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Kudos: 10





	Fire

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a standalone, or as a companion piece to my Metals Series.

' _In the confusion and the aftermath,_

_You are my signal fire._

_The only resolution and the only joy,_

_Is the faint spark of forgiveness in your eyes._

_There you are standing right in front of me,_

_There you are standing right in front of me._

_All this fear falls away to leave me naked,_

_Hold me close 'cause I need you to guide me to safety.'_

' _ **Signal Fire' - Snow Patrol**_

_**…** _

The world seems hazy now.

Humans have this ridiculous notion that in the split seconds before death, our entire lives pulse across our vision in a flurry of disappointment and regrets juxtaposed with the bright colours of happier times.

They are wrong.

Lives are not defined by every little seemingly important moment that touches us, but by the tiniest of fleeting, insignificant ones. That is what Koschei concludes as the voluminous light encloses him in its blinding embrace, dragging both him and his tormentors back into the abyss where they belong. He knows that he is facing inscrutable pain and suffering and, oh yes, he will die more than once, probably many times in the next few unending seconds, replayed over and over again, but the slight smile stays on his resolutely tear-tracked face nevertheless.

He has never been much fond of humans or humanity and the self-important rules and moral obligations and sentiments that govern them, but he has always been a fan of a little too much theatricality. The gesture he has just made, he decides, is nothing more than the innate desire that he has always had to have the last word. To be the hero of the hour, the class clown. It's just a way of getting that delicious sense of one-upmanship that he has always needed from his relationship with Theta… _"Relationship"…_ _"Theta"…_ Ha! The thought amuses him as the walls between the worlds rebuild themselves, shutting out all light and air and hope. He chokes, the shock of it startling him. It finally sinks in; what he's done… When he thinks about it – and he can't help but think about it now – he could probably have coped with the incessant drumming, shut it out even, now that he knew the cause, but this… _this_ …whatever _this_ is that he has done… It's so permanent, so final and definitive and… _scary_. It's such a small word, so childish, like some silly nightmare in the dark, but if he's honest with himself – and in the current darkness, it's difficult not to be – then he has to admit that…well, he's _scared_. Like a child. In one stupid, impulsive moment of rare chivalry, he has condemned himself to an interminable forever of death and resurrection and death and resurrection…one huge cycle of pointlessness and blood and war. For what?

For Theta, he realises, and then curses himself. The basest instincts of a child; fear and love. Two emotions that he had forsworn a long time ago. When he was a different man.

Those sunshine days in between blades of crimson grass come back to greet him, blinking across his blurring vision like a tantalising promise of something that he knows he has long since grown out of. Suddenly – surreally – the haze clears and the horror begins to come into focus; a stark contrast to the memories of red grass stains and warm golden sunshine. The Citadel is a shadow of its former glory, sitting in the middle of burnt fields; a twisted hulk of broken metal with the grand tower of the Prydonian Academy sitting in its centre, a smoking ruin. Koschei thinks back to the last time that he was at the top of what was now no more than a mound of rubble; the first time that he told Theta that he loved him. Before he _really_ became The Master. Before Theta began to work towards becoming his exact antithesis. Before it all came crumbling down around them.

Everything happens all too quickly – just as it had on the very same day so long ago when the leaden sky had burnt itself onto his memory – and yet the blurring never really dissipates. It all moves too quickly and relentlessly for Koschei to make sense of any of it; all he can do is look on in terror. Despite his previous realisation of what he had done, he had never really expected to relive the horrors of the Time War. He scrabbles around, desperately searching for shelter, clambering over the bodies of Time Lords and Daleks alike, worn out by battle and bloodshed. Just like him. After dodging what he considers to be far too many Skaro-esque death rays, he reaches the Prydonian Tower and, pulling the rubble of its once grandiose mahogany doors aside, makes his way inside. He makes his way up the crumbling stairs to the Grand Hall, overlooking the rest of the Citadel; the rest of the ruins. A shocked realisation courses through his veins. He knows this battle. Remembers it. He died during it. Every Time Lord remembers the first time; the first time that singing golden energy singes their nerve endings and explodes across their minds.

 _Fire_. Everywhere. _Fire._ Everything burning. He steps back from the precipice, clapping a hand to his mouth; a sharp electric shock bursting through his head, reminding him that he too is on fire with the remains of his incomplete resurrection. He has never seen anything like the destruction below him, nothing that he could use to excuse himself for his own callous actions. Nothing that can save him.

A feeble groan somehow manages to startle him out his state of shock and he turns to see an arm flopping gracelessly down a pile of rubble that Koschei had previously dismissed as simply more destruction of his childhood hideaway. He makes his way over to it with an overwhelming sense of dread. He shouldn't be here; he knows that. But something else is creeping into his subconscious…something that _means_ something. Something bad, something wrong. If only he could figure out what it is. That arm and hand with their faint glitter of fresh golden Time look far too familiar for Koschei to be comfortable. He recognises the tiniest of details; a scar on the knuckle of its ring finger – a defensive remnant of an argument that went too far – the fingernails, bitten down to little jagged stubs of habit and worry, the feel of the loops of long-forgotten fingerprints that somehow feel like a strange sort of homecoming. He knows. How could it be anyone else? How could it be anywhere else? The memory of that final visit to this very spot is burned into his mind like it happened yesterday. In actual fact, for Theta, it can't have been more than twenty minutes.

Koschei finally forces himself to lift some of the rubble from Theta's chest and looks at him properly for the first time in what feels like forever. He looks so young. He _is_ so young. Koschei remembers this face fondly; its soft blue eyes under dark dusty eyelashes, the soft downy skin of its cheeks, the unruly mop of soft brown hair. Soft. Like Theta always was back then. Before Koschei had made him into steel. Theta's eyes are closed, his eyelashes fluttering skittishly across his cheeks. It has begun already, but Koschei can't quite tear himself away no matter how much he really doesn't want to watch. The intensity of the gold builds gradually until it begins to sing and Koschei can't help but marvel at its beauty whilst silently contemplating the fact that his first time could never have been this perfect. Suddenly, the singing reaches a pitch that is too much and Koschei is thrown backwards in time to watch the halo of light around Theta crackle and explode like a magnificent firework. As he watches helplessly, Koschei sees the changes beginning. He savours the moment, knowing that he has only a brief pocket of time until the face in front of him disappears forever. Someone should see it… Even if that someone is him.

Theta slumps forward, the throbbing tinges of gold subsiding now. Koschei shuffles forward cautiously, already assured of the fact that he would be the last face that Theta would want to see. Nonetheless, he cradles his head, lifting Theta backwards to lie more comfortably against the rubble and Koschei's own arm. The differences are marked, their subtleties long forgotten in the haze of past and present hatred of each other – the dangers of Time Travel. A longer nose or a missing freckle hardly seem relevant now considering that here, right in front of him, is a brand new untouched, unburdened, clean-skinned Theta just waiting to be scarred. And somehow, as he opens his new eyes – testing them in the light and focusing in on Koschei's battle-hardened and much older face – and he lets a wash of unexplained forgiveness and thankfulness glide across his face, Koschei wonders whether this might actually be some sort of divine providence. His final reward for the act of love that he couldn't help but commit.

'Hello.'

A new beginning. That's all that they needed.


End file.
